


Real, Love, Toy

by Paladog_Vyt



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Murder, Other, POV Nonhuman, Podfic Welcome, Religion, Religious Fanaticism, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paladog_Vyt/pseuds/Paladog_Vyt
Summary: An exploration of the Toy Soldier as it learns and comes to understand certain human concepts. It's difficulties with the label of realness and being rejected form it, and refusal of people to acknowledge it as a complete person, even by those that should know better.Inspired by discussion on the Mechscord, especially bylink_ink, about how infantilized TS is by both fans and crew. So if you like this fic, check out more Good TS Content there.Also a songfic for "Skin" by Reesha Dyer.
Relationships: The Toy Soldier/The Angel, The Toy Soldier/The Old Woman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Toy Soldier Has Rights





	1. Real

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: The Toy Soldier's early life and relationships, it's time with the old woman, the museum, and the Salvation Army, and eventual understanding of the purpose of the world "Real". 
> 
> Please let me know if I've missed any tags.

_I am your precious puppet, your tiny wooden queen_

_You whisper me your stories and your promises and dreams_

_I sit upon your hand, my living breathing throne_

_And you tell me with your eyes that you are mine and mine alone_

The Toy Soldier’s memory begins not with being constructed from wood and gears in an engineer’s workshop, nor when its brightly colored face was pained on, or even when its box was opened, but rather when it was dressed in its first uniform. A uniform, after all, made it an individual. Uniforms distinguished it from its siblings—clothing alone made it the Toy Soldier, rather than the Toy Sailor, the Toy Doctor, the Toy Cricketer.

It was also what made it the old lady’s favorite. The Toy Soldier learned much that the woman taught him—what was proper and how to make it, whether words, food, or gestures. It met no other people, but it learned from her well—including all she didn’t realize she was teaching it. It learned how to dance around ego, it heard the kind of secrets that only get told to silent diaries and empty rooms, and it learned when to smile blankly and pretend that it had never learned any of the above. Everything was a performance. It did not have to understand every word or the point of a salute, only execute it properly.

The old lady often taught the Toy Soldier words, but failed to properly explain them. Among such enigmas was ‘real’. It could not tell if it was ‘real’ or not, though the scales seemed to lean toward the negative. On one hand, the woman insisted she was teaching it to talk like “a real officer” and constantly mentioned it was wearing a “real” uniform and titter “Oh do you _really_ mean it?” when it complimented her (the correct answer was always “Yes,” and she always accepted it). But on the nights when compliments failed and teacups were smashed or tears flowed, her berating words were always the same—that it was not real, and would never be.

_But what if I had skin, how would we begin?_

_What if these lips were real, if these fingers could feel_

_If I could be like you, what would you do?_

_If I had a heart to fill, would you love me still?_

After the old woman’s death, The Toy Soldier was given to the Victoria and Albert Museum, where its understanding of ‘real’ developed a little further. “Is that a real gun?” children would ask out loud, pointing to the displays (though most would hide behind their mother’s skirts if it actually answered). “Goodness, is it real?” people would ask, staring right into the Toy Soldier’s face. But they would never be talking to it. The question was always intended for _real_ people—the security guards, the tour guides. It once asked the curator why it was a ‘walking exhibit’ rather than an employee. Wasn’t it doing the same job? He had given a polite and circuitous answer that meant “because you aren’t real”, even if he never said those exact words. It left the museum the night it got that answer and ran into the recruiting party. It wanted to learn about people, and at least these people were actually talking to it. Besides, what better place for a soldier than an army? So it marched and drummed and handed out pamphlets and said the Right Words.

But most of all it listened. Few people would talk to it, but almost everyone talked around it as if it wasn’t there. Between the old woman, people-watching at the museum, the Salvation Army, and the people on the street, it started to understand what ‘real’ was. Which was, apparently, nothing at all. As far as the Toy Soldier could tell, ‘real’ had no distinguishing feature, no consistent mark, no true determinant. It was merely the shield humans placed between themselves and what they wished to ignore.

“Captain Burgess was hardly a real officer,” the old lady would say disdainfully while telling tales of the old days.

“I just think you should get a real job,” a parent would nag at the museum.

“I’m sure it’s really not that bad,” the manager would say, dismissing complaints.

“If you want to know real oppression—” a stranger would argue on the street.

“A real believer would never—” a recruiter would insist. 

And so, the Toy Soldier came to understand that ‘real’ was defined not by what it was, but by what it wasn’t. Not Real was everything ignored, overlooked, swept under the rug. Being Not Real, all it would get from humanity would be averted gazes and forced smiles more wooden than its own. 


	2. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Toy Soldier's relationship with the Angel, and the consequences thereof. It's time with the Rose Reds. The Toy Soldier's understanding of Love.

_Your voice it cuts through all the strings, so radiant so clear_

_You shine for me so brightly, all the others disappear_

_But then you leave to live the real life I cannot share_

_You don a mask I do not own, I cannot have you there_

With the false and hollow nature of reality laid bare, the Toy Soldier began drifting further and further from the recruiters (with their one Real God and one Real Faith) and sought out the overlooked and unconsidered. The homeless that weren’t a “real” issue, the people told to pick “real” words to describe themselves, the drugs and drinks and vices that Good, Proper people always insisted existed only in some _other_ neighborhood, somewhere else.

It was at one of these nonexistent dens of iniquity that it first heard the Angel’s voice. They had to be an angel after all. It had heard enough about the celestial choir, blankly told so many passersby about the ethereal perfection. A voice so transcendent could only belong to the divine, and the Toy Soldier faithfully followed in due reverence. The halo circling the Angel’s head and the feathers decorating their chest were only extra confirmation. The Toy Soldier would have wept, if clockwork eyes could weep, when it realized the Angel was blind. At last, it had been sent someone that could love it.

And it was profoundly in love. At last the word made sense. It could finally place an emotion to the wistful yearning of the old woman, or the joy of her nostalgia. It understood the awed reverence the recruiters had for a God they loved, and the belonging and welcome they described as receiving that love. The Angel needed give no orders, the Toy Soldier wanted only to make them happy. When they held hands, when they shared dinner, when they kissed, for once it was not a performance. What joy, what release, what ecstasy to say the words “I love you” and mean them!

And what agony to feel it slip away. The Angel started to become colder, more distant. They pulled away too soon, their touch grew cold and stiff by degrees. They stopped paying attention to the Toy Soldier’s stories, and stopped telling their own, mumbling shallow answers when prompted. The Toy Soldier saw itself becoming invisible and forgotten, day by day. Once again, it was turning into something to be ignored. And it could see where the Angel’s attention was slipping—a flesh and blood girl.

For a little while, the Toy Soldier considered trying to mimic her. It could learn to play guitar. It could wear a beret and a skirt like that. It could paint on curls for hair. Perhaps, with enough sandpaper, wood could become as soft as skin. But it knew that it would always be at a disadvantage—the girl was herself effortlessly. It could not hope to compete with her at being her. At being _real_. Rage boiled up in the Toy Soldier until it felt nothing else. Everything it saw or heard or felt reminded it of what it was, and what it could not be. Every passing gaze felt like a judgement—not real. Not worth loving. The jealousy choked it, made it hard to breathe, made it feel like it would never speak again. It strangled the Angel, wanting them to know what it felt like to suffocate under the weight of unrealized love. 

_But what if I had skin, how would we begin?_

_What if these lips were real, if these fingers could feel_

_If I could be like you, what would you do?_

_If I had a heart to fill, would you love me still?_

King Cole’s war swept through the planet not long after. Bitter and lost, the Toy Soldier joined the ranks of the Rose Reds. It was a Soldier, after all, and always would be. It had been foolish to think it would ever achieve more than its slated purpose.

It tried to remind itself that it did not have a heart, and thus could not be heartbroken. But setting aside the painful loss of the Angel was impossible among the Rose Reds, who uniformly longed for Cinders. It stole a normcolonel’s uniform after constant chatter of what constituted a “real” Rose began to grate, hoping to give itself space to be something else. Unable to ignore it, it channeled its rage and grief and pain into fighting, rising through the ranks through sheer brutality. Perhaps, with enough blood on its hands, the Angel’s murder could be a statistic rather than a tragedy. There was a love soldiers talked about for battle and bloodshed. If it could never love or be loved again, it would learn to love violence.

When the Toy Soldier finally got battered down by rebel forces, it played dead. What would the point have been in rising? It was unwanted. It had been a soldier and it had died at war, as soldiers are meant to do. When the Bittersnipes found it and cleaned it up, it couldn’t find it in itself to be either grateful or upset. Everything felt numb. Perhaps it had used up all its emotions on the battlefield. Perhaps whatever piece of its body had given it feelings had been left behind, missed in the salvage. It was easier, in a lot of ways. What a fantastic development, it thought, to be freed of all the ugliness of jealousy and loneliness and love. 


	3. Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Toy Soldier's experience of the Mechanisms, and how it came to understand the purpose of a Toy.

_I feel so young and awkward like, a maid, of just sixteen_

_Yet I'm the strong, the old one, why so in-between_

_I know just how this play should end, Its played 1000 times_

_But humans never learn the script, you might forget your lines_

In the Bittersnipes’ shop, the Toy Soldier had a lot of time to watch, listen, and think. And it came to understand the meaning of a Toy. A Toy was a placebo, a euphemism. A soft, pleasant thing that mimicked reality without any of its drawbacks. Parents bought toy animals for children who wanted to cuddle something fluffy that they would never have to care for, toy instruments for those who had no intention of practicing and would lose interest in the novelty in weeks. Toys were categorically Not Real, and thus conveniently available when wanted and set aside when not.

In hindsight, it realized just how much of a Toy Soldier it had been to the old woman. She hadn’t really wanted her husband back, had she? A real soldier-husband might have arguments, or rude habits, or fail to compliment her new hairdo. A toy husband could be the romanticized, ideal version of her daydreams. It was a Toy. Its job was to be good at pretending, if playing pretend made someone happier. 

_But what if I had skin, how would we begin?_

_What if these lips were real, if these fingers could feel_

_If I could be like you, what would you do?_

_If I had a heart to fill, would you love me still?_

When taken up by the Mechanisms, it had the brief flicker of hope that it would not need to pretend. But for all their stories and songs, it found them disappointingly human. Even here, among people that were stories, it found ‘real’ being used as a shield. Between them all, they had enough mechanical parts for another entire automaton, and still Brian clung to his “real” heart as his lifeline to humanity. The drummer never said anything rude directly and probably didn’t even realize the painful implications of his words. But it was hard not to hear between the lines: _At least I have this. At least I’m not completely gone (like you). Thank God I’m not like you._ Like every human before them, the Mechanisms talked around it as if it couldn’t hear them. _“When did the Toy Soldier get here? I swear the door was locked.”_ As if it was a nuisance, a stray animal that could be barred from the ship or chased away.

The first time Jonny gave it an order it did not like, he awoke later that night to being strangled by wooden hands. The face above him was smiling blankly as ever, but he could see a profound wrath somehow in the frozen features. He never gave such a command again. For Jonny, killing was casual—murder was approximately equivalent to a handshake between him and the crew, a prank at best if it was particularly gruesome. But not with the Toy Soldier. The Toy Soldier killing him made it too real, its emotions too visible, its personhood disturbingly evident. And so, like most things Jonny found difficult, he ignored or evaded such reminders.

The Toy Soldier had to suppress laughter whenever the crew listed its role as ??? or merely “Present”. They were completely ignorant to its purpose on the ship. Even Marius, who claimed to understand people and their thoughts and motivations, completely overlooked it. And it was so blatantly obvious, it was even in its own name—it was the crew’s toy. It pretended, in order to make them happy. So, when Jonny handwaved it being a nymph with “whatever that means,” it didn’t clarify because he didn’t really want to think of it as anything but childish. When it sang about the Moon War, it sang “no heart to break, so shed no tear”—first to deny the dregs of its own deep-set rage and loss, later because Tim had pinned the crimes of his immortality on believing no one hurt as much as he did after Bertie’s loss. It had made cucumber sandwiches and more for decades, but it would pretend not to know how to make tea if it would crack a smile in the crew. When Jonny taught it how to shoot a gun, it pretended to learn from him (even though it had fought with the Roses when he had watched from a distance. Even though it had fought all of the Moon Kaiser’s personal guard while Jonny’s head rolled around like a sad kickball), because he had had a spat with Nastya and needed to feel like a ~~big brother~~ good captain.

It hoped they would catch on. Even with all of the perpetual head injuries, they had literally infinite time to come around. The Toy Soldier hoped that someday, Jonny would find his own catharsis outside of songs about others’ terrible fathers and noble deaths. Maybe Marius would realize it had as complex a mind as any crewmember, and was not Simpler Brian, or a therapy practice dummy. Perhaps Drumbot Brian would overcome his internalized fears and realize his morality had never come from a bit of flesh that’s only purpose was to pump blood. The Toy Soldier hoped, someday, the Mechanisms would be less fixated on the body parts they were so sure separated them from humanity (and therefore from personhood). Until then, it would show them Friendship, and hope they learned by example- some words, after all, could only be learned by experience. It was not a fairy, that needed their belief; it had no hopes of becoming real if it was loved enough—nor any desire to. Instead It waited for the day its crew would be wise enough to see they were no more (or less) real than it, and stopped pretending otherwise.


End file.
